The next morning, we find our heroine huntress- laying face first on the edge of Krasus' Landing. Hair strewn about, body lightly clothed in shorts- a tanktop, and a pair of poorly built sandals. To passerby's she looked as if she belong in the slums, drunk and passed out in her own vice- none of the nobles seem to take heed, and none of the mages seem determined enough to break from their studies to worry about a foolish elf.

Her days had become azure skies and the glare of reflected snow. Her nights, midnight and cobalt. Her dreams haunted her with the memory of cerulean and indigo eyes, and her waking thoughts were the blues of swirling Dragonflight mage cloaks, the wings of blue dragons, the ice blue of the Oculus and Nexus.

She had tracked. She had killed. She had questioned. She had gained in confidence seemingly in contrast to the weight she lost. She was gaunt and hungry, too focused to eat, hardly sleeping.

The cold wind whipped around him, his cloak billowing out behind him as Daraman enjoyed the splendor of Alterac Valley. The beautiful white snow that blanketed the ground and covered the trees, the graceful and majestic white wolves that stalked their prey amongst the forests, the feeling of life that seemed to simply flow through the valley. It was so different than the last snow-covered area he had been to, Icecrown.

Her blonde hair flows freely about her pale features, a smirk twisting her lips as she crouches low, hiding deep within the shadows. Her green eyes are filled with mirth, even as she holds her daggers at the ready. She is silent, patient; she is death in both form and function. The cold wind sends a shiver up her spine, chilling her beneath the black leather of her armor and nearly giving her away as she fights the urge to shudder. He will hear her. She knows he will. It is merely a matter of when; for a moment can deter a death and a moment can end a life.

Up on the snowy ridge overlooking the roads of Winterspring, a snow-covered mound stirred, a young troll lifting himself up out of the snow, shaking himself and his heavy blanket off. Kozha smiled as he stood, shivering a little bit in the wind. The jungle troll raised in warm ocean breezes had padded his armor significantly with fur and wool. He stood for a few moments, feeling the wind brush around him, the small pinpricks of cold snowflakes landing on his exposed skin.

It's cold out here. Damn cold, especially for those of us just returning from our tours of duty in Outland. As a whole, it was a pretty hot world (except maybe the Marsh - rain kept that pleasantly cool) and all the combat gear I'd brought with me from the other side of the Portal was constructed primarily for fighting in the warmer climes.

It’s easy to forget in the eternal autumn of Silvermoon. No rain, no storms, no snow. No need for furs or blankets, cloaks or hoods, drainage gutters or covered roofs. We live in a paradise of our own making.

Ernie raised his head and gazed up, his eyes narrowed against the sting of the ice particles that were being driven into his face by the relentless wind. Even the towering blue and white mass of the glacier, it seemed, was no sure protection against the power of the northern storms. It had been a long, hard journey. Ernie had crossed plains, oceans, swamps, forests, and mountains of increasing steepness. Now only one climb remained.

February coated everything in ice and snow, covering the cobblestone streets of old towne in a treacherous white blanket. Carts slipped and slided in it, their drivers cursing the weather, while foundling refugee children ran back and forth, squealing with delight as they glided over the slick pavement. The cold air made your breath hang in your face, like a small puff of cloud, but with a warm coat to hold back the chill, the shabby buildings didn't seem quite so forsaken.

I ran away from the Lodge. I hadn't time to get anything to bring with me, and the idea of going back made vomit rise in the back of my throat. The shouts and hateful screams of my sisters followed me on the wind long past when it seemed they should have faded. Traitor. Last of a handful who've stood their ground... you fell back. Traitor.